Crimes Against Humanity

Seemingly innocuous suggestions–
hints, gently corrosive, then demands. Shunned
and poked fun if you stand unmuzzled, free
unpuzzled by shifting narratives. Trees

and ferns, the waters flowing in the lake,
birds, blossoms, fish. Which myth panders heartbreak
and which inspires? False premises at stake
impetuous humanity mistakes.

Ancient adventure spells out corrections.
Our passion calls, we fall. Imperfection
laughs: try again. An herbal remedy
in love a hummingbird mirrors esprit.

This intense vitality speaks through me
heart-opening. I stand sovereign, be
poised warrior-woman unafraid and sound
in all the noise, holding this sacred ground.

Inspired by: Innocuous, Adventure, Herbal and Pander.

Weaving Magic

Empathic contact with the living planet….beholding, pure and simple.~John Lamb Lash

As day begins, I weave intentional
loving strands. No qualms, unconventional,
a vibrant reminder to bronchioles:
breathing, we do our part. Unlock keyholes

to now where pure creation moves us through
the loom, each interlacing skein imbued.
Unique patterns emerge smooth and knotty.
I show up powerful. Call me haughty,

naughty, even dotty. My heart is clear.
My contribution in love’s hues mirrors
the energetic dance. Once realized,
the beauty of each thread intensifies.

Inspired by: Qualms, Bronchiole, Reminder, Haughty and morning chores nourishing and keeping alive the gorgeous living beings at the house where I’m petsitting.

By Jupiter’s Moon

Accompanied by the animals and feathered spirit messengers, I grounded, watchful and curious for the new breed rising in Sophia’s embrace.*

I grew up all alone, girl in the midst
of raffish pretense, dismissed by a fist
when they’d insist that black is white, let fly
their rage when I’d insist in earth, not sky

the power source, mother, which a brother
could not perceive. Their might makes right a lie
subversive like the ivy I would cut,
beliefs like holdfast vines that cling and shut

til now they creep in darkness, boxed in dreams,
fed by unholy streams. Caught in deep sleep
they rouse angrily when they hear my song
exposing their alien worship, wrongs

feel right and so they call me crazed. I see
there is no waking from their daze. Lonely
I stride, barefoot powerful warrior,
rise as Gaia-Sophia’s storier.

Inspired by: Lonely, Pretense, Ivy and Raffish.

And (featured images) this morning, Jupiter singing in the moonlight.

*Quote from my newly emerging novel.

Grateful To The Living Earth

Be grateful that you see your sovereignty.~John Lamb Lash

Before dawn, songbirds instruct decorous
gratitude grounded through lightening skies.
No fuss, unstinting praise. I cast my eyes
eastward and earth calls my bare feet. This day’s

mine, I claim the nowness seeping. Aware
I cease sleeping, taste and feel the very air
supporting my flourish. Being nourished
in countless ways. Summoning my courage

speaking my unique truth. Proclaim essence
guttural, impressive earthbound presence.
Separate fairytales. Common sense
laughs at the calendar’s programmed events.

The soil, the blooms, cicadas, butterflies
each moment charging before my stunned eyes.
Behind me, in a fervor, the old pup
dumps the trash can, gleeful, tearing things up.

Inspired by: Calendar, Guttural, Impressive and Decorous.

What We Know

Unless there is internal force for resistance, psychic immunity, so to speak, the individual psyche will adapt to the stress of the collective imagination. It will become what it believes and forget what it knows.~John Lamb Lash

How does one gainsay vacuous culture
built on false premises? Foolish things sure
to topple in the ring of sound inner
knowing, but the words are colored. Sinner

take warning. Perpetrator victim bond
is sealed. Rat race mouse wheel and I respond
to abject pleas and harsh commands: join in.
Homeless, unemployed, I have no coin in

and yet my heart aches as the clones skitter
surface glitter, find the next outfitter.
And how easily they could new create
if they could just release this grasping hate.

Inspired by: the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt color/colour, vacuous, foolish things, skitter and gainsay.

Featured image: a tricolored beech outside of my window.

Flower of the Flock

In the rain at dawn, inconsolable
abed, he doesn’t even lift his head.
Adorable and grumpy old man missing
the woman prone to kissing. She had warned

mornings he likes to be alone. We fit
surreal, exact behavior pet sit
repeated and reflected for my heart’s
sweet wisdom teaching. I’m reaching to start

a new way of being. So releasing
old perspectives, new idioms teasing
from the weighted words designed to enslave.
Experience I generate now, brave

and willing to share what keeps revealing
each strong bright presence no more concealing
how we flower in our time through stages
creation we source unique, outrageous.

Inspired by: Idiom, Rain, Surreal, Exact and the gorgeous blooming yard where I’m petsitting.

Intuition Rising

A hummingbird and a house finch feed neat
precise in the stillness. Beyond the trees
reflecting silver green in the current
from the cold spring comes a thrum crosscurrent.

Fast wheels on pavement sound stress in harsh waves
aggress. We cannot see frantic airwaves.
We tune them out but in the deepest song
unease stirring coalesces. The wrong

premises support not this jovial
cloying reassurance, colloquial
creeds recited abecedarian.
Intuition flexes new, clarion.

Inspired by: Colloquial, Coalesce, Fractures and Cloy.

Coming in Hot

This culture seems designed to vitiate
morals my path forward delineates.
A whirlwind of fear produces anger.
I’m scapegoat at their disposal, gangsters

united, throwing bricks. Malleable light,
I change swiftly as perceptions alight,
informed by spirit messengers who dine
and bless the air in sacred signs align.

Featured image a gorgeous huge white egret visited yesterday after I made so much of a tiny white moth. As if my deceased loved ones sending messages said, A moth? Pshaw. Hold my beer…

Inspired by: Brick, Whirlwind, Disposal and Vitiate.

American Way of Death

Many cultures around the world believe that a white moth is a visitation by the soul of a deceased loved one.

My mother’s dying wishes couldn’t fit
into the shibboleth of death’s toolkit
doctors wielded. Shielded by CYA
they poked and prodded, toxified to buy

stint in drug-filled haze, so thorough the dose
the ruction didn’t seem to faze. Who knows?
She couldn’t speak before her final breath
incandescent, luminous into death.

Now here beside the lake, taking a break
from packing, following the lists she’d make
each morning while I’d compose morning praise,
her songbirds sip and flutter, greet new days.

Inspired by: Thorough, Shibboleth, Incandescent and Ruction and this moth who came for the morning poem creation.

The Presence of Angels

Giving each caller a trinket. Angels
watching over night and day. My changes
flow in deep currents. I weep for her self
frugality. Clothes on this closet shelf

her only new, so treasured. I bought her
finery she wore with pride, my daughter’s
. Imagine each furbelow and flounce,
each pleat an added bounce to her step, neat

and organized beyond her death. I plow
through lists, I make the calls. Expel the vows
of retribution, simply feeling love
that never ends. White swans descend. Above

my head, the poplars are trembling. She said,
it’s not the wind, it’s angels assembling,
look there, outside the window fluttering
They are here right now, praises uttering.

Inspired by: Trinket, Expel, Self and Flounce. Thanks to my mother’s deathbed visions, poplars will always signify the presence of angels.